


Lake Balaton

by CaptainHoney, CopperCrane2



Category: Marvel
Genre: Angst, Comfort/Angst, Depictions of Murder, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 04:18:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11328453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainHoney/pseuds/CaptainHoney, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperCrane2/pseuds/CopperCrane2
Summary: She's known as one of the greatest spies in history - the best of all Black Widows - and she's not undeserving of the title. But she's still human, and she has a past as dark as the rumors make it out to be.Natasha has her bad days, just like everyone else does.This is one of them.





	1. Unsettled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainHoney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainHoney/gifts).



> I write this entirely for my AMAZING & TALENTED artist Captain Honey, who's been super supportive and all around awesome. 
> 
> LOOK AT THIS ART! LOOK HOW BEAUTIFUL AND INSIPIRING IT IS: [Natasha Under Moonlight](http://imgur.com/a/KYSbW)
> 
>  
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/152124373@N07/34745649264/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 

Despite the time she's easy to observe through the darkness, the dim lights of the city casting streaks of illumination across her body, alternating with lines of shadow that drift with her movements. He watches as she mellows down from her climactic high and kisses her inner thigh, using the opportunity to wipe his mouth along the delicate smoothness of her skin.

She closes her legs and shifts to create room for him.

“You ok?” he asks, resting his head on the pillow next to her.

Natasha remains lying on her back, eyes closed in the hope of avoiding direct contact with his. “What makes you ask?” 

“You seemed… distracted.”

She takes in a deep breath and exhales it in a long sigh. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” she admits.

He doubts that's the truth. Natasha's a better spy than he’ll ever be, but they’ve been playing this game long enough for her to know this was something he’d easily pick up on. “Wouldn’t notice," he prods, "or wouldn’t ask?”

She rolls carefully to her side to face him properly. “The latter.”

“Talk to me, Tasha.” He traces his right hand along her clavicle, his finger dipping at her suprasternal notch. “Please?” He looks her directly in the eyes as he asks. 

"I saw someone today," she says, relenting.

"Someone you know?" 

She shakes her head and then leans in close enough to press into his neck. “A stranger at a coffee shop. Some young guy who was trying to build up enough courage to talk to me,” she says dismissively.

He chuckles. “Did the kid manage it?”

She smiles at his amusement, and at the memory of the blushing boy. “No.”

“Idiot,” he says as his hand glides, feather light, along her back, “wasting an opportunity like that, even though you _were_ out of his league.”

“How do you know that?”

He nudges her forehead with his chin, tilting her head up. “Because you deserve nothing short of the best,” he says seriously, “and some lovelorn sap gazing at you from a distance doesn't cut the mustard.”

She lifts her eyebrow at his flattery. “What does that imply about you?”

“Me?” He grins in that cocky, surefire way that charms the pants off anyone who sees it. “I think that’s pretty obvious, wouldn’t you say?”

It only partially works on her. “Careful, Loverboy," she teases, "your ego’s showing.”

The grin lasts a moment longer before he becomes serious again. “I don’t deserve you, Natalia Romanova, but you love me anyway and I'll never stop thanking every deity out there for that miracle.” The grin returned. “And at least I have the guts to _talk_ to you.”

She laughs as she kisses him, and then pulls away first. “We’re the same, you and I,” she says, “there’s blood on my hands but no matter how many times I try to wash it away, I always find more crusted under my fingernails.”

“What happened today?”

“His eyes.”

“The guy in the coffee shop?”

She frowns. “They weren’t even the same… or maybe they were,” she says, correcting herself before she gives up trying to remember, “it was a long time ago, I don’t recall what he looked like exactly, but this guy... a kid, almost... he reminded me of _him_.”

“An old friend?” he asks, knowing more than likely it was not, but offering her the courtesy of the optimistic assumption first.

“A target.” She traces a graceful finger along the rough shadow of his jaw, her voice unexpectedly hesitant when she asks, “Do you remember what happened at Lake Balaton, in Hungary?”

His eyes widen in surprise. “I was there?”

She nods.

He isn’t sure if she's relieved or disappointed that he can’t remember. Sometimes she's just too good a spy. “When?” he asks.

She takes a while to answer, as if assessing how much she can safely reveal. “Nineteen fifties; beginning of the Hungarian Revolution.”

“I…” he starts, thinking hard, searching through the spotted memories he can recall of that time (which isn't much), “I don’t-”

“Then don’t,” she whispers, interrupting. “Don’t do that, there’s no need.”

“Tasha, if I was there-”

“What good will it do?” she questions as she sits up in the bed. “It’s just a little memory.”

He raises his eyebrows in skepticism, rising with her. “From the sounds of it, it wasn’t so little.”

Resting her arms over her knees she turns her head to look at him, but in the shadow of the outside lights he can only make out her silhouette. “We have a lifetime’s worth of pain and regret," she says, "why add more if you don’t have to?”

He shakes his head, not liking how stubborn she's being in keeping this pain to herself, in trying to protect him. “Because it’s hurting you.”

“I’m a big girl, James.” He can't see it, but he can hear her smirk and he can't resist kissing it. She pulls away after a few seconds and turns to stare out of the window. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she says solemnly.

“Don’t shut me out, Natasha." He places his metal hand carefully on her back. "You don’t need to do this alone.”

She leans into the touch and leads him back down into the bed. “Then please," she say, "don’t ask me to tell you what happened.”

He doesn't like it, but he'll never force her. “What can I do instead?”

Natasha's hands slide up his chest to his neck, her gaze following the shadows and planes of his torso in the dim light, before dragging themselves up to meet his eyes. “Help me forget.”

He feels her leg wrap across his hip, pulling him on top of her. “Anything,” he whispers, and kisses her deeply.


	2. Dream

_I can’t breathe._

 

She’s in water.

 

Dark.

 

Cold.

 

She’s drowning.

 

_I can't breathe!_

Panic. _Panic_ . _PANIC_.

 

Water. She's immersed in water.

 

_I CAN’T BREATHE!_

 

Her eyes open. It’s dark, it stings. Nothing is clear. She’s choking. Her throat is tight. Her temples pulse. Her whole head burns.  _Where am I?!_

 

_Fight it! Breathe!_

 

Her mouth gapes. She inhales. A reflex. No relief. No air. Only water. She’s drowning in a cold, dark lake, and she’s going to die.

 

_Apu! Help me! Father!_

 

Water fills her with every attempt for air. More and more, rushing, flooding in.

 

She’s terrified. She’s choking on it. It burns, it stings, she’s dying.

 

 _Let me go! Let me breathe! I CAN’T BREATHE! Please!_ She coughs and coughs and coughs. It comes out but in goes more.

 

She is _drowning_ and the arms won’t let her go.

 

Her body can't move.

It screams but she can't obey.

Her mind swims in the dark.

 

 _Run_ , a voice had said before, but she doesn't understand how.

 

She clamours, she claws. Frenzied. Hysterical. _Apu, help! Please! Father, I'm drowning!_

 

The water fills her. Floods her. Is _killing_ her.

 

The hand won't release her.

She can’t breathe.

 

Despair. Terror. Panic. She feels it all.

 

A vice on her throat.

 

_Run, my son. If they catch me you must run to safety!_

 

 _Apu,_ she pleads, _Apu, where are you?! I'm drowning! She's holding me down! Apu! I don't want to die!_

 

She can't breathe. She can't fight. She’s so terribly weak.

Her head hurts. Her vision is lost. Nothing works.

And the hand won't let go of her throat.

 

_Save me… father... I’m dying._

_She’s… killing me..._

 

She stands now on the shore line.

Watching, critical.

Both fiercely proud and heartbreakingly anxious.

Her left shoulder muscles ache with weight and the cold, but the discomfort is easily ignored. She watches, seeing _herself_ , standing waist deep in a lake, her hands holding someone down, under the water.

She knows it will be over soon. The struggle is minimal. It will not take her long to drown him.

The squirming ceases soon enough.

 

The air is quiet now, without the splashing of water. “Black Widow,” she calls in the voice of her beloved Soldat, “it’s done. Bring him out.”

 

But the Natalia who’s standing in the lake does not move. She is anchored there.

 

“Black Widow,” she tries again, seeking to gain her attention. Natalia ignores her, her eyes transfixed on the face of the one she murdered. Water laps cooly against her torso, but she doesn’t notice, or care. She stares through the soft, little waves, through the water, into the hollow gaze looking back.

The moonlight glows bright suddenly behind her, as bright as the sun, and shines a ray onto the water.

She watches from the shore and she sees it, a darker spot, slipping down the beam and onto the lake. She sees the ray, following the creature as it glides upon the surface. Flat, misshapen and blood red, liquid on liquid, it flies towards Natalia, rooted as she is to her place in the lake. It skitters over the ripples, and the moonlight follows, glistening, cold and white.

 

A spider.

 

She can only watch from her place on land, watches as the spider draws ever closer.

“Natalia,” she yells in her Soldat’s voice, “get out of there!”

It's coming for her, it's coming. And the Black Widow does nothing but wait in the water with a dead body in her hands.

Her heart starts to pound in her chest, her heavy arm weighs her down. She too, is anchored to her place, watching helplessly as the spider draws near.

 

It reaches her.

 

“No.”

 

It crawls over her.

 

“No!”

 

It pulls her in.

 

“ _NATALIA!_ ”

* * *

Jolting out of her nightmare, Natasha's first instinct is to check on James, to see if her movements disrupted his own sleep.

She turns her head carefully and watches him through the dimness, her ears pricked, listening intently to the sound of his breathing. It's quiet, barely audible, but it's steady. _Small mercies_ , she thinks.

She leaves the bed and immediately feels the prickling of the cold night air. Reaching for the satin nightdress draped across the chair she spies James' t shirt and decides she'll put on both for the extra warmth they'll offer. She opens the bedroom door and makes her way out, shutting it silently behind her.

Once in the main living space of the apartment, she's free to make a little more noise, so she takes in a deep breath, allowing the effects of the nightmare to wash over her properly: drowning is not a new sensation for her. She's the Black Widow, trained for much worse. She'd been in situations where people had tried to kill her with water, where they'd tortured her with it in some admittedly creative ways.

She wasn't afraid to die, but this hadn't been the same. Unlike reality, in her nightmare she hadn't had any control over herself or the situation, she'd been her target, her victim, an innocent. It had felt so real. In a way it _had_ been - it was a memory, after all.

Panic began to wash over her again. The way he'd looked at her: helpless, terrified. Eyes round in weak, flailing panic.

What he must have felt in those last seconds, as she’d forced the life out of his lungs… He must have been so scared, his final moments filled with agony and despair. In her dream she'd been far too weak to fight. She’d been consumed with hopelessness and terror as every effort she'd made for relief had only brought on more pain.

She was suddenly finding it difficult to breathe again. She needed air.

Opening the window that led to the fire escape, she climbed out, graceful as a cat despite the jarring iciness of the metal grating against her bare feet.

The immediate onslaught of the night wind was unforgiving, but cold and hard as it was Natasha relished the slap to reality it gave her. The unchecked emotions that had assaulted her as she slept were disappearing, fading into a vague and familiar sense of melancholy. She leaned against the balcony, listening intently to the sounds the city produced in the dead of night: drunken laughter, emergency vehicle sirens, the beeping of a reversing delivery truck… they were distracting enough for her to get a grip over herself. To push all the unsettling fear down, to lock it away, deep within the caverns of her darkest memories.

It wasn't enough to stop her from remembering, though. For the memory to remain, steadfast, waiting eagerly to play like a reel in her head.

So she let it.


	3. Summer, 1956 - Lake Balaton, Hungary

“Do you think he was right, about Dr Bálint having a son?”

The ‘56 Mercedes-Benz 300SL speeds along the black abyss of the unlit country road under the confident handling of the Soldat. It’s a new vehicle, the latest model, but if they’re spotted it wouldn’t be an unusual sight where they’re heading - Lake Balaton had its share of wealthy holiday goers who would flock to its calm waters and pretty scenery, even in these trying times.The car itself is a little cramped, but it's a Coupe so it’s to be expected. She did approve of the gullwing doors and the tanned leather interior - one of the many perks of partnering up with the Soldat was that he was consistently effective in convincing their superiors to provide them with the very best of accessories.

“I don’t know,” he admits, both hands on the wheel. “But why would he lie? He’s a Soviet sympathiser, and not too clever. He wasn’t exactly sober either.” He spares her a quick, amused glance. “You did an excellent job with him,” he says with a grin.

Both the look and his approval please her more than she cares to admit. “I don’t think he’d have lied about it, either. He said it in passing, like he assumed that we already knew,” she says, but something doesn’t sit right with her. Uncertainties are dangerous, deadly, even - but they’re a risk all must accept in her line of work. She takes in a breath to push down the worry. It would be easy to blame her current discomfort on the new information, and she’s tempted to - it’s probably the smarter option - but she suspects the unsettled feeling in her gut has nothing to do with the mission itself.

If she tries hard enough she can pretend that this isn't a mission at all, that the dossier in her lap, illuminated weakly by her state-of-the-art mini hand torch, is actually a map to the holiday home they've rented for the season... that when her lover is silent it’s not because he’s strategizing plans of action based on her intel, but because he’s secretly planning how he can best hire a boat to take them out onto the lake as a surprise. “I’m more concerned about whether he lied about their location,” she admits, desperate to quell the sudden rise of such a silly fantasy.

“He wouldn’t, he was desperately in love with you.”

She scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. I only met him four times during the last two weeks and one of those rendezvous lasted less than fifteen minutes. At most he was infatuated.”  

“Sometimes a few secret meetings are all it takes.”

He doesn’t look at her this time, he doesn’t have to. The weight of his suggestion almost revives the daydream, and she's tempted - oh so _very_ tempted - to let her heart take over. She could pretend that her recent graduation from the Black Widow programme was entirely a figment of her imagination, that her young career - her _life_ \- did not revolve around the control and destruction of the lives of her country’s most impressive enemies… that her ultimate ambition was not to one day topple a national government of some kind - preferably a big one - without anyone but her handlers ever knowing she was responsible.

For a few moments, speeding along in the classy but understated gunmetal Mercedes 300SL, she was still her cover from the earlier phase of the mission. She was Nina Korikova, accompanying her politically powerful Russian fiancée as he checked on some of his secretive business endeavours in Hungary. She was not a killer. She was a girl who’d been sheltered from the true harshness of poverty in Soviet Russia through the machinations of her influential father. And who would continue to be sheltered via her marriage.

“How did they fuck this up _again_? I’m sick of murdering children for the cause.”

His voice breaks through her beautiful little lie and she dismisses it quickly, ashamed of having had it in the first place. “Who says we have to kill the boy?” she asks. “Our mission is the father.”

She’s tired, that’s all. The Soldat had managed to catch a few hours of sleep while she'd been working their lead (not that she begrudged him for it - rest during a mission was a hard thing to come by), and then they'd left immediately afterwards... well, not _immediately_ after. They'd taken the rare opportunity to be together without eyes or ears on them - but with having had less than an hour to spare, it had been fast, frantic and energy sapping.That had been the entire reason, _of course_ , for her brief moment of sentimentality. There was no other motive. None.

“For all we know, he could have memorised the documents like his father has. He’s a risk.”  

She’s fought in wars, and when she'd been child herself people had tried to kill her - she is not innocent or naive, but this feels wrong. Maybe it _is_ the mission. “Just because Dr Bálint has a photographic memory doesn’t mean his son will, too,” she tries, even though she knows better.

“Knowing my luck...” her comrade starts, the unspoken other half of the sentence easily deduced.

He is being soft for her, she notices. Having realised her hesitation he’s trying to break the truth to her gently. It’s kind, but it’s a warning flag, too. She’s being weak.

She can’t let him think that. Not him. Not someone who means so much to her.

She is about to bring it up, to blame her unease on the incompetence of the intelligence team, but her better judgement gets ahold of her in time. _Even an amateur would be able see through that._ She'd been trained extensively in how to see through lies - even the ones people tell to themselves. So has he. _What is it, then? Why do I really feel this way? Why do I want to leap out of this car and run as far away as I can? Why am I daydreaming like a stupid little girl?_ Her gaze doesn’t shift from the file on her lap, but her thoughts drift over to the man she is sure she is in love with. _No,_ she thinks, _he’s only a symptom, not the cause for such waywardness._

 _Then what? Nerves? Pressure? The fear of not living up to my new title?_ She sighs and flips a page absently in the dossier… _is it simply the fact that I don’t like the idea of murdering children? Is that what this really is?_ The last thought acts like a springboard to the answer. She becomes amused because she realises that the truth is a little more callous. _Yes,_ she thinks, _I'm on the right track now._ Of all things, it is the fear of commitment.

 _Of course I'd have cold feet. Of course it would only be natural to imagine myself in a simpler, more innocent life…_ She allows herself a brief glance at the Soldat. _This is what it means to serve the Soviet Union - for our own self-preservation, to oppose those who would crush us, they have forced us to blackmail, to cheat and to live a life of lies. They have done those things to me. They have trained me to do these things for them, too. And they have shown me the necessity of death._

This is her last out. If she kills this child, if she commits this atrocity, there will be no going back. No redemption. She will be consumed entirely by the persona of the Black Widow. “I’m taking lead,” she states.

He's visibly surprised by her announcement. “Natalia-”

“It’s not up to you, technically you’re only meant to be my handler on this mission.”

The Soldat is not afraid to make his displeasure known. “That’s not how this is supposed to run. You do the spying, I do the brute work. That's what is expected.” 

“That might be how you run missions with the other agents," she says confidently, "but not with me.”

He knows what she is doing, and why. “My hands already have that kind of blood on them, there’s no need for you to dirty yours in the same way.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist. You’re my trainer, not my knight in shining armour. Soon I’ll be running missions entirely on my own." She gives him a look of defiance, instinctively drawing his gaze away from the road. "Is there a better, less risky opportunity to test my skills than in the isolated countryside with a middle-aged scientist and his young son as the only threats?” she ask, and then hammers the final nail into the coffin. “You know that that’ll be the same question our superiors will ask when they read the report and find that you were the one who executed them.”

He huffs and turns his focus back to driving. “You shouldn’t be doing this," he says, not liking the idea anymore now than before. "Not if there’s a child involved. I’m not afraid of the work, I just can’t stand incompetence.”

She straightens in her chair. “The doctor will not be a problem, and if it comes down to it, I’ll take care of the son, too.”

 _For the Cause, for my title, for Ivan and-_ she hesitates, but only for a second, _-and most of all, for me… tonight, I kill an innocent. I will commit my first true murder._

He is quiet for a moment. Mulling it over. Technically he is the superior officer between the two of them, he gets the final say. “You can’t hesitate, Natalia,” he says eventually. “If you do, I’m taking over completely.”

 _I am a Black Widow, I will do my duty._ She closes the file, resolved. “That’s a fair deal, but not necessary. We’re not monsters, hesitation leads to their unnecessary suffering as well, I know that. I’ll do it. And I will do it well.”

The queasiness in her stomach dissipates.


	4. Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apu - nickname for 'father'  
> anya - nickname for 'mother'

The house is dark, the floors are wooden, but these things are not inconveniences for them. It’s almost laughable how easy it is to infiltrate the premises, there’s barely even a lock on the door. They were not expecting much in the way of obstacles or traps, but they’d done a sweep of the outside of the premises to assess its internal layout, just to be sure; it wasn’t an overly large or complicated structure - two bedrooms, a study, a kitchen and a living room. Its main advantage was its proximity to the lake itself - which gave her the idea for how they were going to carry out the executions.  

They enter silently and make their way to the study - the only lit room in the house. Its door is open, and the conversation of the two occupants (father and son) can be heard easily by both Natasha and the Soldat. There is no need to hide it in the darkness, but her training kicks in and she suppresses the sinking of her heart at what she hears.  

“But apu, this is so _boring_ ,” the boy whines in Hungarian, “and I'm _tired_ and I don’t understand what any of it _means_.”

The father sighs, his voice tight with exhaustion. “You don’t have to know what this is about, all I need you to do is memorise what I am telling you to.”

“But-”

“No buts!” Dr Bálint snaps, seemingly losing his patience. Natasha wonders how long they must have been at this. He is practically yelling. “I need you to finish looking at these pictures, do you understand?!”

The boy mumbles, sullenly.

“This is not a game, Viktor! You will copy what I have drawn until you can do it perfectly. You _will_ remember what I have told you. Everything! Every single thing!”

As she approaches, Natasha can hear the sniffling of the child, exhausted, confused and hurt by his father’s harsh tone. “Apu...”

“Stop that! You will not go to bed until you have memorised all I have told you to remember. If-” he hesitates for a moment, his voice finally breaking, “if you don’t,” he says desperately, “and I am caught, the Americans won’t take you.”

“Are we going to America?” the boy asks, suddenly perky. Either he is too young to recognise the fear in his father, or the prospect of visiting the ‘land of the free’ distracts him enough to forget his current unhappiness.  

Dr Bálint sighs again, his voice better controlled this time. “Not if you don’t do what I ask,” he says, softer than before. “Come, finish this, you’re almost done.”

The Soldat presses forward, emerging silently from the shadows into the dim light of the gas-lit room. Natasha follows suit, exposing them both.

The boy, sitting in the main chair of the office bureau, is the first to notice to the two of them, his surprised gasp alerting the father to their presence.

Once the man hears it he turns around in his seat slowly, almost as if he knows that they are there, doing his best to prolong his ignorance of the truth. When he finally allows himself to see them, he drops his head and utters a soft, “No...”

“Doctor Bálint,” Natasha states. There is no need to pretend she does not know exactly who he is.

He takes in a laboured breath, his head still drooped, as if it is made of lead. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, spare my son.” When he finally looks up, his eyes are glistening. Exhaustion, terror, hopelessness. She sees it all in his pleading gaze.

She cannot help it - Natasha considers herself a master of neutral expression, but she quirks up a fine, red eyebrow at just how easy this is. No fight, no anger. He is entirely broken and forlorn. She knows that when prey is hunted for long enough, when they expend all their energy trying to outrun their hunters, they will eventually reach a point where they simply give up and offer themselves to their hunters, just to end their anguish. But this is not quite the same. The most dangerous people are the ones who have nothing to lose, she knows this. She also knows, from personal experience, just how weak love can make a person - afterall, it’s what led her to become a Black Widow in the first place… but to see this doctor in such a state: haggard, beaten, and yet so terribly afraid - so full of life - it pricks at her, reminds her just how _human_ both she and her target are.

“If you do what we ask of you, then yes,” she lies, flawlessly. “We are not monsters, we’ll put him in an orphanage-” she pauses as she pretends to consider something, her eyes drifting to the child (a boy, barely ten or eleven) frozen in so much fear he cannot utter a sound- “we’ll make sure it’s a decent one,” she adds. “You served the Motherland well enough until your betrayal.”

Doctor Bálint’s back straightens and his eyes light suddenly at the hope she’s instilled within him. “I-” he starts, and then hesitates. “I have neighbours,” he tries, “in my town, people who would take him in.”

She shakes her head once and hardens her tone. “Do not push your luck, Doctor.”

He does anyway, hoping to capitalise on her apparent sympathy. “They’re an elderly couple who dote on him. They lost their own son, they know nothing about what I do, I guarantee it. They think I am a janitor in a government building. I’ll write their names, please, they know nothing I swear. Please, I will give you anything you ask, say anything you need, do everything without question or hesitation...” His eyes dart to the Soldat. Finding no sympathy there, they return to her. “Please,” he begs, “the boy is innocent.”

“Write the names,” she says, “and their address.”

“Black Widow.” The Soldat shoots her a look. He thinks she is taking things too far, she can tell. He does not feel the need to put on such a show when the man’s execution is imminent. She ignores him. She sees no harm in offering the doctor a little respite before his death - it will help things run more smoothly. They’ll be less noise, and the kills will be more humane. They’re not monsters - she’s wasn’t lying about that. Natasha holsters her weapon, knowing full well that Bálint is just as aware of the Soldat’s cold gaze and his even colder gun. She rounds the table, approaching the child. “It’s alright,” she whispers with a warm smile. “You’ll come with me now, and we will keep you safe.”

“Are you taking us to America?” the boy asks.

Bálint grips the pen he is using to write his neighbours’ details and looks up at his son, the colour of his skin suddenly pale. “No!” he practically shouts and then looks at Natasha. “They’re not supposed to come until tomorrow morning, that’s all I’ve told him, he doesn’t understand what is going on, I swear to you the boy-”

His babble is halted by Natasha’s finger on his lips. “We know about the Americans,” she says. “We know everything.” She looks down at the paper under his hands. “Give it to me.”

Bálint swallows heavily and then picks up the piece of paper. When he offers it to her his fingers are rigid.  

She pulls the paper out of them with smooth grace, despite his vice-like grip, and then looks over to the Soldat. “I will take the boy and wait with him in the car.” She looks down at the child. She keeps her hold on him light, but firm enough to force him out of the chair. “Say goodbye to your father,” she says softly. “You will not be seeing him again.”

At her words Viktor bursts into tears and crashes into his father’s embrace. “ _Apu, apu…_ ” he wails. “ _Apu I want to stay with you..._ ”

Bálint grips his son tightly, pulling him even closer. Natasha is impressed. She sees how close the doctor is to breaking, but he doesn’t. She is about to say something, to pull the boy away, but there is no need. Bálint does it instead. “Go with her,” he says, and his voice is hard. “You will have to take good care of our neighbours because they are elderly, they will be relying on you.” He gets to his knees and grips the boy’s shoulders when he looks like he is about to protest. “Don’t worry about me. Be good for these people, make no trouble for them, do you understand?” he asks. “You _must_ be good.”

The boy nods and does his best to wipe his eyes. “Are you going to America without me?” he asks, his voice shaky.

Bálint places his hand on the boy’s cheek. “Of course not. These people need my help,” he says, touching his forehead with his son’s. “I will always be with you, just like anya is.”

Natasha pulls the child away just as his eyes widen, finally understanding. “Are you going to die?!” he demands, his head swivelling to look back at his father. “Apu, are you going to die like anya?!”

Bálint cannot get up from the floor, his hands still outstretched from where Natasha snatched the boy. “Take care my son,” he calls as they disappear into the darkness, “your apu loves you!”

“ _Apu?_ ” Viktor begins to fight Natasha’s grip. “ _Apu!_ ” he screams, shifting his weight to pull against Natasha. But the boy is no match for her. No clawing or biting gets her to slow down, she won’t let it, because she knows, deep inside, that if she stops what she is about to do, she will not be able to complete it.

 _My first true murder,_ she reminds herself as she drags him out of the house, kicking and screaming. _Get it done. Or everything you have sacrificed up until now will be worthless - you will have failed your trainers, Ivan, yourself. Do it._

Their location is relatively isolated, but there is still a danger that someone will hear the boy. She is tense as she waits, knowing that she cannot delay much longer. As always, the Soldat does not disappoint, and she hears the gunshot.

Viktor freezes at the sound and Natasha uses it to her advantage to unholster her gun, knocking the boy out cold with the butt of it.

With the father dead and the child now quiet, her resolution returns and the mission becomes easy again. Natasha picks him up and carries him over her shoulder to the lapping shore of the lake. Finding a suitable boulder on the bank, she rubs her hand into his wound and then wipes the blood across the stone, the plan being to make it seem as if the boy fell and hit his head on his way down into the water. Once she finishes her task to satisfaction, she wades in deeper, until the water is at her waist.

It is cold, it is dark, but she doesn't let it stop her. She must not hesitate. 

She drops the child in, and holds him down.

At first there is no struggle, but soon enough Viktor’s eyes open, and the moon, full and shining through the cloudless abyss of night, illuminates him through the water.

He does his best to fight against the limbs keeping him under, but he is young and weak, and wounded. And she is a Black Widow.

She will have her prey.

 _I will not fail_ , she thinks. _Not for a traitorous father, and certainly not for this weak little boy with luminescent eyes._


	5. The Black Widow

“Natalia!” The Soldat’s voice has her snap out of her daze. She looks down to see Viktor still in her hands, his arms floating listlessly by his sides. 

She does not look at his face. 

“Black Widow,” the Soldat calls, his voice now more tame at her movement. “It's done. Bring him out.”

Slowly her faculties begin to return. She sees he is waiting for her just beyond the shoreline, his metal arm glinting under the yellow, crescent moon ( _ was it not full just a minute ago? _ )

She sloshes through, trailing the body with her. Without her hands to keep it down, the boy floats to the surface, a soft splash announcing his breaking of the surface. She does her best to ignore it. She does not look back.  _ It is done,  _ she thinks.  _ Looking back is pointless, there is only one direction you can travel.  _

Once she makes it to shore and drags the body far enough, she lets go without ceremony. 

The Soldat makes his way towards her, meeting her halfway. “Are you alright?” 

She does not look back.  _ She does not look back.  _ She looks up into the eyes of the Soldat instead. They’re hard. Icy blue and cold, even though they're laced with affection. But at least they’re alive, and she clings to that. “Did you do it?” she asks instead of replying.

He nods. 

She doesn’t know where it comes from, but suddenly there’s a warm blanket on her shoulders, though it does nothing to quell her shivers. “You did well, Black Widow,” he says. He tries to keep his voice from sounding soft, but she can hear it nonetheless. “This plan of yours was good. The boy drowning and the father killing himself in grief is simple, clever and unlikely to raise suspicion amongst the general populace.”

She nods in agreement, her eyes never leaving his. “The American agents will be coming in a few hours,” she says mechanically. “We should leave soon.”

He takes in a deep breath and pulls her carefully towards him, tucking her under his arm in order to better lead her to the car. She notes that ordinarily she would protest at such coddling, but she’s too numb to do it this time. 

She can’t help herself, she looks back. 

Viktor is staring up at the moon. 


	6. Epilogue

He’s silent as he moves around the apartment - not on purpose, of course, stealth is just one of those things they do instinctively - but there’s no hiding the boiling water of the kettle, or the feeling in her gut which tells her that there’s someone moving around behind her.

Natasha smiles a little to herself, finding it sort of cute that he noticed, even in sleep, that she wasn’t in the bed with him. She waits, unmoving against the rail of the fire escape, for James to join her.

When he finally does, he presses a cup of camomile tea into her hands and then places a blanket over her shoulders. She accepts his kindness with a gentle smile and holds the tea mug close, more out of comfort than from the cold - she’s Russian, after all, and she was forged in its bleak winters. The cold isn’t what’s fazed her.

The fears from the dream have subsided, but she knows that the memory, now fresh - a wound ripped open again - will not leave her for some time.

As if he senses her disquiet, James’ bare arms wrap themselves around her waist in a loose hold. Grateful for his quiet presence, Natasha sighs and leans back into his chest.

She sips at her tea and together, they look up at the moon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been waiting for an opportunity to do a Natasha introspection piece but because I love her character so much, I was always afraid to do it. I hope I did her (and the beautiful art I based this fic on) justice! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this! Let me know what you think!


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